The Art Walk

Your Art Walk Correspondent

The Art Walk
The Art Walk took place last night. I was in town before sundown, and sat in Cathedral Park for a while, untill I heard the strains of a female vocalist on an acoustic guitar who seemed to be playing simple chords.
I walked down to the Dauphin Store.
She was right across the street, and loud enough to be bleeding into my acoustically superior spot, which was a concern, but I went to check her out.
I listened to a couple of songs. Throughout the first song, her guitar was quite out of tune. She had adjusted her capo, and I think she had it a little uneven. She was probably only of about 17 or 18 years of age. Making sure that a capo is seated evenly is something that has to come with experience.

Feeling like a father figure, I approached her and complimented her on the song, and then asked her if she was in an "alternate tuning." That's a tuning which isn't "standard," like the way the guitar comes tuned from the factory.

This brought her attention to the strings, and her guitar's built in tuner.

She fixed her tuning and then did a much better rendition of a song. But not before some guy in a suit told me something like "Let her finish her set, then you can talk to her," and then added a snide remark like "Would that be alright with you?!!" uttered sarcastically.

"Would that be alright with you?"

I shot a glance at the girl who was playing. She shook her head as if to say "I didn't tell him to do that."
She played "I Want To Hold Your Hand," by the Beatles; and played it very slowly. That was pretty neat.
Then, as I was leaving to go try my acoustically superior spot, she sang something about walking away and playing guitar, and I wondered if she "freestyled" and was singing about me...
She was somewhat audible, and so was a DJ, who has been set up at a sushi place near my spot the past two Art Walks.
I played, had a glass of wine at the Investment Firm, which is also a stop on the Art Walk.
The place had on display some guy's photographs. They were alright. He seemed to be the one serving (translated: guarding) the wine. He graciously poured me about half a glass. He then poured another half glass and set it on the table, as if to communicate to me that everybody gets a half a glass, or at least that the next person to get a glass will.
His photographs were of "nature." One of them had a white bird, the kind with a very long, skinny neck almost like a snake, walking in a big field of some kind of tall grass. I didn't understand that one. The price tag on it was like 350 dollars, confusing me even more.Going Mobile?

"Why Don't You Try Mobile; there are a lot of cool people there."

Somebody else asked me (It was Sherelle) if I am really thinking of "leaving" Mobile.
I guess, well, I actually am.
I would love to return at certain times of the year, like a migratory bird, maybe the kind with a long skinny neck.
Mobile has been the most excellent place, in at least one category, and that is the "has a lot of really cool people" category.
The Rainbow Child guy (above) whom I met in Jacksonville, when he was sitting in the shade under some palmettos and drinking from a gallon jug of vodka; that guy; he had told me that Mobile has "a lot of really cool people."
My Tribute To The People Of Mobile
I will now pay tribute to some of the cool people of mobile. These are in the chronological order in which I encounter them, during my day. If your name is near the end of the list, it doesn't mean that you're less cool, just that I run into you later in the day.
The first people that I usually see are the people at Save-A-Lot, as that is where I leave my bags, so that I can get into this here library. They are cool for letting me leave my stuff there, in an out of the way place where someone would be visible trying to steal it.
I think that was Amber's mastermind, but Jennifer had a hand in it.
Amber has ranked me as her favorite homeless person, and has been very helpful. She was ready to call some heavyweights in on 15 Place, after they refused me a membership, claiming that I wasn't making a sincere effort to get off the streets, as evidenced by the fact that I play street music till all hours of the morning. No soap for me.
Amber was going to call some important figure that she knows, who I can't mention, and heads were going to roll down at 15 Place if they didn't let me become a "member," be entitled to toiletries, mail, laundry services (one outfit per day) as well as medical services from the Catholic Social Service place.
I decided that I really didn't need 15 Place to help me get into Section 8 housing, and off the streets. Soap isn't prohibitively expensive if you can stand the scent of Ivory; and I don't have the patience to fake a neck injury to get narcotics out of the Catholic place.
Amber used to be homeless, I think. I was very happy for her when she got a vehicle on the road, after not having one for like a year or something.
Sometimes when I am out of cigarettes, she will give me one, refusing the 25 cents that I offer for it. She smokes Pall Mall regular flavor, which makes her that much cooler.
Sherrelle is cool and reads this blog sometimes. She was at the party that Dennis threw on Joe Cain Sunday. Dennis cooked some of the best food I have ever eaten, and Sherrelle mixed me a cranberry and vodka, which came out the color of pink zinfindel.

The Save-A-Lot people have been "the bomb." I even get to "throw water on my head" in the restroom before coming to the library.
They have recently put a heavy duty gate around their dumpster in back of the store (the dumpster that I call the "Save-Even-More"). It sits just high enough off the ground so that I can squeeze under it, like a snake, while more corpulent individuals can't get through. (They don't need to be in there, anyways, they need to be doing sit-ups.)
I think they intentionally designed the gate that way, taking the diameter of my rib cage into consideration, so that I could get through and get the perfectly unspoiled stuff that sometimes gets thrown away. Not that I've been in there more than twice in the past month...
I just have to be careful not to eat too much while in there, so I don't get stuck inside.
Arielle, Mike, Julian and Todd, are all cool.
From there I come to the library. There aren't really the coolest people at the library. The library doubles as a Day Center For The Homeless, and the staff are a little bit standoff-ish.
Corey and Mike are about the only two homeless guys that I associate with at the library.
Corey is one of the few others that sleep in the graveyard. I think a lot of people have aversions to sleeping in graveyards, which is fine with us.
He has to clean up after a sloppy guy who has no such aversion and who leaves big messes around his grave.


Joelle, how she would look if she was homeless and slept on straw,
and (right) in action onstage with tambourine.

Corey is smart enough to know that the quickest way to get run out of an historic cemetary is to leave bags of half eaten Happy Meals around the tombs. He has a college education, like myself. I guess the slob doesn't.
Mike used to sleep at the Christ Church spot, where I slept last summer. That was the church that layed straw down on the spot where we slept, around Christmas time.
Mike has an excellent sense of humor, keeps to himself pretty much, isn't a chronic beggar; and gets all my jokes. I used to see him at the Presbyterian church in the mornings, getting his hard boiled egg.
The Presbyterian church people are pretty cool. They cheerfully spoon out bread, grits, egg and coffee. I don't really have a lot of friends that go there. Most of them will stop talking to you altogether after you deny them a cigarette a few times...
Ben, the ambulance driver, along with Porsha and Bubba and Scott, the Captain of the station etc. have been really supportive. They see me walking past the station a lot.


Ben calls me "The Anti-Homeless Guy," because I'm "not like 99% of them." He was the first person in Mobile to pull up in an ambulance and ask me about my guitar and my music. I realise that very few people drive ambulances, but still...
He has visited me at my playing spot, shown me some stuff on the guitar, -he's an excellent player- and brought strings to me after I had broken them.
He's usually with his partner, Bubba.
Ben and I hung out once at a music bar, which I won't mention because he wasn't supposed to be there.
Porsha is another of the firemedics, a lot prettier than the others, by a long shot. She gave me a bag of clothes (which she assured me were "trendy"), a guitar case, a few bucks once, gave me her old glasses which were almost my prescription, told me where a good church was, and has been very helpful, as have the firemedics in general. The captain even gave me a writing tablet once.
A lot of times, I will be walking about and one of the ambulance drivers will see me and honk the horn, or get on the PA and tell me something like: "Leave the Earthquakes alone!!"
The Knightons have been very good friends. Jeff, the potter is a fellow artist and has offered to bring me to church when he and his family went. He has helped me out with numerous clothing items and whatever else he thought I might need. He is almost like a brother. He and his wife, Jennie have given me every opportunity to stay close to "the word" which, to them is like offering something better than food and clothing and the other things.

His family is awesome.
His daughter's are still close to him, even though they are teenagers and at an age where a lot of kids might think that it was "square" to hang out with dad. Jeff has appeared at Serda's open mic night, with each one of them. When I see Taylor on the street, she is always friendly and interested in talking about artistic things.
Erin, the middle daughter, was with us when we went to Dauphin Island to play frisbee.
Leigh, the youngest girl is one of the most artistic-minded people I've ever met. She writes poems and draws, and comes up with very clever plays upon words and also puns.
Jared, the young boy, is already making drawings that have impressed the likes of Mike Feeney (a guy I went to high school with, who is an artist now, by profession).
Hanging out with their family has been like a grounding experience. I know they are probably praying that I have a nice family some day, and of course a job and a home. My parents used to say "All we want for you is for you to have a life." That's a pretty broad wish.
Becca is of a race of angels who are on earth using their powers to help struggling street musicians.
She just turned 23 and is a youth minister, musician, songwriter and one of the first people to like the songs that I played at Serda's. She is very pretty and a living suggestion that life could possibly be better.

She has friends, like Hannah and Lauren, who may have come on the same starship.
I also need to add Corrie, who I danced with on an October night, while Clay Walket played in the parking lot across the street. Priceless.
Anyone whom I left out, well, you'll just have to be cooler; I can't do it for you.

The Rainbow Child guy was right.

I would be remiss if I left out the fine group of local musicians, and one poet, Elizabeth Elliot.

Send Us Your Huddled Masses; Your Angels etc.

The Underhill Family Orchestra have been really cool. Jimmy Lee hosts the open mic at Serda's, and Joelle (Miss Underhill) brews coffee there. She sometimes goes up and performs, playing a tambourine and singing along with Jimmy Lee.
They have been supportive, along with a lot of other musicians, whose names I don't know.

Third 20 Dollar Tip In 52 Days!

Working Hard On Song About Bums
Wednesday began with The Coffee Club, as I was woken at 6am. by some kids bouncing a basketball in the church parking lot, and started my day then.
I had $6.01, as I recall.
The day was pretty much spent working on The "Bum" Suite.I took a break, and had a couple of Earthquake Lagers, at about 5pm.
I planned upon playing near Serda's from then, until such a time that I had the suite ready, or if not, 9:30pm.
I was thrown a 5 dollar tip, and a 20 dollar tip. The rest was change. I was on my third lager, and playing "Dear Prudence," the John Lennon song, as I recall, when Ben, the amulance driver with Bubba, the ambulance rider, stopped by, and played my guitar. He put it into a "dropped G" tuning, and played some interesting stuff, giving me lots of musical ideas.
Fortified by 27 bucks and change, and lots of ideas, I went to Serda's for the songwriter's open mic thing. I was tempted to keep the guitar in that tuning and just go in there and "wing it," flailing away on the strings and screaming at the top of my lungs. (I think the warning label on Earthquake Lager makes some mention of that.)

She's Losing It Up ThereUpon my arrival, the MC asked me if I would go up immediately and play. He said that whomever was currently on stage was "losing it," or words to that effect.
The MC let me play his guitar, as mine was in dropped G tuning, and I wasn't Ben, the ambulance driver.I was rushed onto the stage and greeted warmly by a group that collectively wanted to hear "Hubert's Trip," which I had done the previous week (for the first time in 20 years.)

I wasn't confident that The "Bum" Suite was ready, in fact, I was pretty sure that I was going to screw it up, unless a miraculous improvisation happened, as had on "Hubert's Trip" the week before. I decided to give the people what they wanted.
One Flew Over The Coffee HouseI guzzled a Flying Dog Amber Lager (it's the AMBER LAGER which is so delicious) and did a half-assed version of "Hubert's Trip."

Results vary when one improvises, plus, I probably didn't need the Flying Dog Amber Lager, though it was delicious again.

I was torn between trying to recreate the lyrics from the previous week, or to totally improvise, (which is basically how they got there) and hope for similar results. I wanted to repeat some of the lines which got "good laughs" from the people, but I wanted to make up others. A recipe for a half assed version! (I don't think I "lost it," though, thankfully.) Nobody told me that I needed a Geography lesson, either...

I got a good round of applause from the dozen or so there, but, some of them asked me what "happened" to certain verses from the previous week's rendition. I explained how I usually made up "Hubert's Trip" as I went along. I picture a map of the U.S., and try to give Hubert an interesting and funny adventure, and one that rhymes. The people left half satisfied. There is always next week, (unless I am in New Orleans.)

I wonder sometimes why I put so much "on my plate," and don't just sit down and write out all the verses that I can remember, instead of going "up there" hoping for a miracle...
One guy said that he and his friend had been waiting for a certain line about Las Vegas. It was about Hubert doubling his money. (he probably put a quarter in a slot and "doubled his money") The MC also said that I sang something about "Bach at the Moon," which sounds like something Hubert and I used to joke about; a heavy metal version of J.S. Bach called just that. (a play upon Ozzy Osboune's "Bark at the Moon," of course)

Broken Sidewalks

I thought about Karrie this morning, when I was in the "eggs and cheese" section of Save-a-Lot. She loves eggs and cheese. I still find myself planning meals that she would like, even though I would never eat them myself.

I want to get some fish and try to smoke it on one of the grills at The Mobile Bay Adventure Inn. I can gather some oak wood from the woods somewhere, or snap it off of a tree along the sidewalk on Government St.

They seem to be protecting the trees here, in Mobile, but not the sidewalks. Most of them are destroyed by the roots of huge oak trees, and in pieces. Some parking lots have spaces where no cars can be parked, because of the encroachment of tree roots. I would hate to be riding my Peugeot English Racer at 25mph down the sidewalk above, and not be paying attention...

Last Link To Karrie Trashed
Last week, I walked to the place where I had hidden my large backpack, and the tent; miles out of town, near the Greyhound station. I wanted to see if they were still there. They were, but the backpack had been penetrated by water. I spent a few minutes gingerly pulling from it, wet shirts, a towel and a blanket. All were moldy, and so I threw them away, and left the pack where it would air out, or be stolen.

The blanket was just about the last physical link that I had to Karrie. After I threw it on a trash pile, I looked at it, and remembered how she and I wrapped up in it on cold nights, and how happy she was when it was clean and "April" fresh, and how she would shake it out in the mornings and hang it up, so that it too would air out, and how she would steal it from me like a thief, in the middle of the night...
A lump formed in my throat as I walked away from the wet, moldy thing, which once was important to us.

It lay there in a heap, like Karrie, after she has had too much to drink.

I decided then, that she is probably convinced that I don't want her.

40 Hours Between Tremors

Another 40 hour period of abstinence from Earthquake Lager ended yesterday afternoon, when I consumed three of them.

I had washed my clothes in the park, discovering as I did that my green pants, (which have lots of pockets,) had been stolen off of the bush where I had hung them to dry. I had tried to match a bush to the color of the pants, but my camo job didn't work. Now there will be someone my size walking around in my pants, and I will have to fight him. (Note to self: Buy a cheap knife at the Shell station...)

After washing my clothes, I chose to walk a mile to a spot near the "abandoned factory" sleeping spot, and hang them there to dry. I haven't had anything stolen from there, yet.

This put me within range of the magnetic force-field of the Earthquake Lager at the Exxon, which was nearby in such close proximity that I was unable to fight against it. I spiralled into the store, flailing my arms and kicking at the air, as if being carried by an unseen riptide; three times, it happened.

I then went to my playing spot and made back one (1) of the dollars that I had spent.

I got to the "abandoned convent" spot early, where I found my friend, Harold, already asleep, and without cigarettes. Harold very rarely asks for anything. He is The Antibum.

I offered him a cigarette when he stirred, set the alarm for The Coffee Club, and went to sleep.
I woke up at 6am., an hour and a half before The Coffee Club commences. Harold was already gone. I had $1.25.

Morning Songs
After breakfast, I went to look for a spot to play "morning" songs. These are songs which, according to Chris, the recorder player in St. Augustine (click on label below for more on him,) must contain major 7th chords. They cannot contain blues chords, because, according to that sage they "frighten people in the morning." Chris plays Christmas songs year-round on his recorder. (Some Christmas songs have major 7th chords, and those are the ones which he plays in the morning.)

Fueled Only By Coffee

I chose the "big clock" spot, right by Serda's Coffee, and there I sat, fueled only by coffee, and telling myself that I was playing for more coffee. At first, nothing happened, and then $4.75 found its way into my case, as I surrendered to the sweat which was coating my body, and ripped into "Eyes of the World," by the Grateful Dead; a morning song because of the line: "Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world..." and because of it's E major 7th chord.

I decided to walk the mile to the Shell and use my food card for an energy drink, rather than pay the $1.66 at Serda's for coffee. Tomorrow night is their songwriter's open mic, and I will want to have money to buy a coffee. That guy is supposedly going to record me and stream me up onto Utube, where it could become a "cult classic." Now, I need to practice up on it.

New Orleans Update

Now, Ben, the ambulance driver has weighed in on the debate over the wisdom of my going to New Orleans on the back of a grain car, with a hobo. Ben's comment (which can be seen by clicking on the "comment" section of yesterday's post) was that there is some kind of licence required to play on the street, and it is hard to obtain. The hobo corroborated the part about the licence, but he said that the cops only enforce the ordinance "in season," by which he meant after October. By then, maybe I can be a "resident," by switching my ID over, or something...

So, I guess there is nothing there to be afraid of, whatsoever...

An Octave Lower

Friday afternoon, it is.
Yesterday, I took the bus, at great expense to me, all the way to the music store. I needed a "g" string for my guitar. The previous night, I had broken mine and replaced it with a thicker string, tuned down an octave. This made for some interesting sounds, but, eventually I tired of it.
They gave me the wrong string at the store. I didn't notice it until I got back into town.
By then, my jaw was swelling up from where I had bitten into something which lodged itself in between a tooth and my gum, causing an abcess of some kind.
This pain, along with the inconvenience of having the wrong string, made me decide to cancel playing.
I went to a spot in Cooper's Park, and slept atop a tower type thing, which is there.
I woke up with $4.32.
I am trying to get in touch with Ben, the ambulance driver, to see if I can borrow a string.
Friday nights can be good. I can play with the guitar the way it is, but, it is a lot of work to rearrange songs to accomodate the weird tuning, of having a g string tuned an octave lower.